


Fog, Friction, Chance

by DwarvenBeardSpores



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aftermath, Alcohol, Conversation, Existential Angst, Gen, Humor, Post-Canon, background/implied violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-16 14:15:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17551244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DwarvenBeardSpores/pseuds/DwarvenBeardSpores
Summary: To Crowley’s dismay, War finds him in a bar and takes the opportunity to catch up.





	Fog, Friction, Chance

**Author's Note:**

> Holoxam requested Crowley and War + “You’re lucky you’re cute” and “I’m too sober for this” from [this prompt list](https://dwarven-beard-spores.tumblr.com/post/182210032576/prompt-list), and wow, it was such a fun dynamic to write. 
> 
> Original post can be found here.

Crowley was used to the atmosphere in a bar souring as soon as he walked in. Mishaps, pettiness, cruelty, tiny incidents that humans escalated all by themselves and a thin layer of tarnish for all involved. It was as natural as breathing[1].

[1. Which Crowley had spent a good century mastering, back in the day, and now only occasionally got wrong.]

Tonight, though, he was trying not to meddle. He honestly just wanted a drink and to lose himself among a very gay cross-section of humanity. His nerves were still shot a year after the apocalypse hadn't happened, and while being alive was infinitely better than being caught in an eternal battle, or dead, or both at once, sometimes he just wanted to get drunk and pretend he was human. That he didn't keep waking up wondering how many days till The End, that he could relax in Aziraphale's bookshop without smelling phantom smoke, that he wasn't afraid of messing the world around and equally afraid of what he would do with himself after 6,000 years at the same job.

So he didn’t pay attention to the clamor immediately, but sometime after his first drink he became aware of raised voices and breaking glass and general scuffling sounds. He glanced over his shoulder, wracking his brains to figure out what he could have done by accident.

That was when the breathtakingly gorgeous being slipped onto the stool beside him. As Crowley watched, their appearance seemed to change slightly, as though they were a video game character and someone was scrolling through customization options. The general takeaways were long legs, silky red hair cut androgynously short, a smirk that could cut glass, the smell of blood, and an overwhelming sense of _danger._

Crowley stood to leave.

“Crowley,” the person-shaped-being said, their voice a low purr.

Crowley sat down again with a shiver. “War,” he said, aiming for casual and failing.

“Carmine, please. There’s no need to stand on formality. Neither of us are on duty, are we?”

In Crowley’s opinion, there was every reason to stand on formality. His leg bounced against his stool, and he almost thought he could feel his teeth involuntarily turning into fangs just from War’s ancient, instigating presence. “What’re you doing here?” he asked.

“I was in the area and I thought we could catch up.”

Crowley’s stomach plummeted; he dreaded finding out what War had been doing. She was the sort of… she wasn’t even a co-worker, really. She and the other horsepeople were like experts from another department who took one look at what you’d done and decided it needed to be escalated about 500%. He hated it, and he really ought to say something, except _that_ impulse was _definitely_ her doing and he squashed it down for his own self-preservation.

“I’m too sssober for this,” he said.

War laughed and raised a hand to the bartenders, who immediately began squabbling amongst themselves as to who would serve her. At least half of them were gay men, but, well, Crowley supposed she was walking the twink/butch line to good effect.

Nobody seemed likely to come out on top, so Crowley filled his own glass and took a long drink. Then he filled it again. “What do you want with me?”[2]

[2. Usually the horsepeople only wanted to thank him for things he hadn’t intended on doing. Sometimes they wanted to “collaborate” and Crowley was hard-pressed to say no. Once Famine and Pestilence had gotten in some sort of row and he’d wound up passing passive-aggressive messages back and forth for about seventy years.]

War looked him over and grinned, like she was about to eat him. She said, “you’ve got spunk.”

“And you hate spunk…?” It didn’t sound right, but Crowley had spent too many nights watching Mary Tyler Moore reruns to respond with anything else.

“Nah, I love it.” Somewhere in the distance came the clatter of an overturned table. “I’ll be honest with you. I wanted the whole place to go up. We’ve had _this,_ but destruction on an apocalyptic scale would have been _awesome._ ” Her eyes flashed. Crowley winced. “But, eh. I can wait a couple thousand more years or whatever for the big blowup.”

“Not if we sstop it again!” Crowley burst out. “Er. That is. Not if _someone_ stops it again.” _Shitshitshit_ he hadn’t meant to say that.

“Here’s the thing,” War said, leaning closer. “Those children outmaneuvered us, but we stuck around to see how it all played out. I saw what you and that angel did.”

“Well—” said Crowley.

“A _tire iron?_ ” said War.

“Ngk,” said Crowley.

“See, that’s what I like about you. Tactically unsound, but I can _respect_ going for blood for a lost cause.”

“I had to,” Crowley said.

“I know,” War said. “I could feel it coming off you. You would have done _anything._ I see it all the time, but mostly it’s a town or a country or a narrow ideal or something. You? You picked the whole damned world.”

“What’s your _point?_ ” Crowley demanded.

“You don’t look like a fighter, but you are,” War said. “So if Hell keeps sweeping you aside and you’re looking for work, you know where to find me.” She clapped a hand on his shoulder, and he shuddered with the heat of it.

“Actually,” he managed. “I’m retiring.” He hadn’t meant to say that, but as soon as he did he knew it was true. “I’m not helping downstairs, I’m not helping you, I’m going to… get a house somewhere and retire.” He downed the last of whatever-number-drink this was and waited for the consequences.

The final, victorious bartender came up at that moment, plunked another glass in front of Crowley, and slid War a Bloody Mary. Then she passed out behind the counter.

“So… do you take those with actual blood in them?” Crowley asked, partly because he was morbidly curious, partly in an attempt to change the subject.

War shrugged and sipped at her drink. “You,” she said to Crowley, “are lucky you’re cute. Don’t throw out my number, but have a thrilling retirement.” She stood up, taking the glass with her, and waked out.

The doors closed, and the chaos in the bar slowly faded as people started coming to their senses. Crowley let out last shudder that released some of the angry tension in his back and sipped at his last drink. He needed to get out of here and, before his nerve ran out, he needed to talk to Aziraphale.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I'd love to know what you thought. 
> 
> You can also find me on tumblr as dwarven-beard-spores, dreamwidth as DwarvenBeardSpores, and twitter as @BeardSpores


End file.
